


A Satisfactory Arrangement

by SilentAuror



Series: A Satisfactory Arrangement [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV: John Watson, Porn, Porn With Feels, Post-Divorce, post-series 3, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has an issue. He loves being back at Baker Street now that his marriage is over. The only thing is, he doesn't fancy going the rest of his life without ever having sex again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Satisfactory Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Соглашение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688083) by [fridaypm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridaypm/pseuds/fridaypm), [soames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soames/pseuds/soames)



**A Satisfactory Arrangement**

 

John has an issue. 

It isn’t that he isn’t glad to be back at Baker Street, because he really, really is. It also isn’t that he’s missing his train wreck of a marriage, either, because he isn’t. It’s been five months since all that ended and he’s very glad that it did. Finally, since all the drama ended and the dust has settled, life finally seems to be something like normal again. He and Sherlock solve crimes. He blogs about it. Sometimes Sherlock probably even remembers to wear pants. Mrs Hudson has finally stopped tearing up every time she sets eyes on him doing just about anything around the flat and seems to be taking his presence there more or less for granted again. After ten or eleven cleanings, the fireplace finally doesn’t smell of urine any more, and life has settled back into something like a regular routine, like it was the last time he lived here. 

The only problem is that he wants it to stay this way. Well – that part isn’t a problem, but – to put it mildly, life with Sherlock does not mix particularly well with having a sex life. John has no intention of leaving Sherlock or Baker Street again. He knows how glad Sherlock is that he’s come home. He’s never come out and said it, but he kept doing almost the same thing as Mrs Hudson at first. Not tearing up – Sherlock would never do that, but stopping in his tracks when he’d come around a corner and find John doing something, just about anything. As though he’d forgotten that John would be there, and that it was a pleasant surprise. His eyes would brighten just a little, and several times he’d said something spontaneous about going out for dinner or doing something together, and John had smiled and accepted, pleased to have their friendship back on track. Sherlock seems to have cautiously got used to him being here again, but there’s still a trace of reserve or mistrust in his eyes, as though he’s still slightly afraid that John will leave again. John does want to reassure him on that score. Being married to Mary made him realise that everything after life with Sherlock was nothing more than second best, and a distant second at that, and that if that life was available, then that’s what he wants. He isn’t going to leave again. So there’s no point in dating. He’s perfectly content to live out the rest of his life in a very much content domestic partnership with Sherlock. Sherlock has honestly been more to him, meant more to him than most girlfriends ever have. Even Mary, honestly. He supposes he could start having strings of flings, but it would always end in frustration for them and needless drama for him, and he also doesn’t fancy a lifetime of no-strings, one-night stands. On top of that, he knows that every time he started seeing someone, it would make Sherlock nervous, put him on edge, thinking that this one would prove dangerous, be the one to take John away from him and their very happy life together, and John doesn’t care to do that to him. 

Ergo: he has a problem. Because, pleasant as it is, wanking has its limits and he would really like to actually get off with another human being again within his lifetime. So he’s come up with a compromise, a solution of sorts, but he has no idea whether it will be accepted or not, or how appalling it could come across. There’s no time like the present, though, so after supper he decides to bring it up. They’re sitting at the table drinking tea and the conversation has gone adrift, both of them lost in their own thoughts as a comfortable silence takes the place of spoken words. 

“Sherlock,” John says, and waits for Sherlock to come out of whatever mental fog he’s in. 

He does so, his eyes finding John’s and focusing. “Hmm?” 

“I have a question,” John says carefully. “You don’t have to answer right away, and – I just want to say up front that I won’t be at all upset if you don’t – er, like what I’m going to suggest, or ask. I really won’t. It’s just that I have a slight issue and – this could be a solution. You might be horrified, though.” 

He has Sherlock’s utmost attention, his eyes riveted to John’s, lips pressed together in anticipation. “What is it?” he asks, sounding fascinated. “What is your issue?” 

“I’m a bit embarrassed to mention it, frankly,” John says honestly, “but you’re my best friend and I believe in being honest with each other. Let me just say first that no matter what happens, I’m not planning to leave again. Move out, I mean.” He stops to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock is still watching him intently, but a bit of tension has come into his shoulders. John clears his throat. “I mean that. Not ever. Assuming you want me to stay, that is.”

“I do,” Sherlock says abruptly, his voice and face intense. “I want you to stay.”

John is almost successful in forcing down a smile, fighting down a surge of affection for him. “Right,” he says. “And I want to stay, so that works out pretty well. The thing is – I don’t know if it just isn’t a thing for you, but we’ve never talked about it at all, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about, with regards to you.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock interrupts, no less intensely. 

“Hang on,” John says. “I’m getting there.” He picks up his tea and takes a long sip, stalling a bit. Now that it comes to it, he feels rather awkward about bringing this up. He sets his cup down, aware that Sherlock is waiting impatiently, his entire nervous system gone taut in the space of two minutes. “What I mean is,” he continues, still feeling wrong-footed, “I don’t really know anything about you when it comes to sex.” 

Sherlock looks blank. “What do you mean?” 

John feels himself give a smile that’s more like a grimace. “I mean – I don’t know if you even… well, _do_ that. If you ever have. Or if you have, with, er… with what sort of person.” He clears his throat again. “Like, female, male, that sort of thing…” He trails off, then risks a look at Sherlock, who hasn’t moved, except that his gaze has dropped to the table. He feels badly about asking, as though he’s put Sherlock on the spot. A beat or two go by before John goes on. “Look,” he says gently. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that it’s… er, related to my issue. And my potential solution.” 

Sherlock’s brow creases in confusion. Without looking up, he asks, “How is it relevant to your issue?”

John takes a deep breath. “Well, here’s the thing: like I said, I’m not planning to move out any time soon. But – I don’t know how it works for you, but for me – look, what I’m saying is, I don’t want to go the rest of my life without ever having sex again. It’s a bit embarrassing to say and it’s not that sex is the only important thing in life or anything, but it _is_ important. For me, I mean. And I don’t want to start dating again. I’m not going to leave you and I don’t want you to worry that whatever girlfriend I might have will be a threat that way. It wouldn’t be, but I think that you probably would worry. And I don’t much like the thought of having meaningless flings with random strangers. Like, one-night stands, just meeting up through the internet for sex and nothing else. The thing is, sex is always better when there’s a personal connection of some sort.” He stops talking, mainly because he thinks that Sherlock might have caught the drift of where he’s going with this by now and wants to see how it’s playing. 

Sherlock’s shoulders have gone completely rigid (probably at John having even mentioned having girlfriends again, he thinks) and his fingers are clenched around his mug of tea, tightly enough that his nail beds have gone white. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Then, slowly, he looks up at John, his entire face wary, his tone uncertain. “John… are you saying that you want…” He stops, as though afraid that he’s come to the wrong conclusion, the wrong deduction. 

John intervenes, breaking the strained silence left in the wake of Sherlock’s unfinished sentence. He leans forward a bit, putting his hands around his own mug. “I just thought that it could be a solution,” he says quickly. “If you’re amenable. That’s why I’m asking – I don’t know what you – what you like, if anything, or who you would like it with. But if there’s any chance you think we could come to some sort of satisfactory arrangement, then I think it could be a solution. I get a need taken care of, we get to keep our life together, unthreatened by any third parties. What, uh… what do you think?” 

Sherlock blinks approximately fifteen times. “You want to…”

“Yeah,” John says, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s. 

“… have sex with me,” Sherlock finishes, his lips barely moving. 

He leans in a little closer. “Something along those lines, yeah. I just thought maybe it could be a solution. We don’t have to. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable or – ask for something that’s, I don’t know, repellent to you or something. That’s why I’m asking about you. Your history. What you’re into.”

Sherlock blinks some more, as though it helps his brain process things faster. (Maybe it does, John thinks, watching him carefully.) His mouth opens suddenly, but then he catches himself, breathes, then tries again. “ _You’re_ not into – that,” he says, almost accusingly. “Men. Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.”

John clears his throat and looks down at the table. He’d known this would inevitably come up. “About that,” he says to his hands. “I, er. I’m not, usually. You’re right about that. I’ve said it often enough, haven’t I? But, er, there have been… occasions. Very rarely. Mostly in, uh, Afghanistan.”

“Mostly?” Sherlock doesn’t miss this, of course. 

John tries not to wince. “There was a time or two, okay. Back in university.” He clears his throat again. “Everyone experiments, don’t they?” He can’t help sounding a bit defensive. After all, he always denies it. It’s hard to un-deny it, take it back, after the fact. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond to this. He fiddles with the mug in his hands. “I have almost no experience worth mentioning,” he says rapidly, his voice extremely neutral. “Would that affect this – arrangement?” 

It’s John’s turn to blink once or twice. “No, not at all,” he says. This is delicate territory. “Can I ask what sort of experience you do have? Or even whether or not you think you might be amenable to – this sort of thing?” 

Sherlock swallows. He picks up his mug and drinks all of the rest of his tea, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks it. He puts the mug down after and averts his eyes. “Yes,” he says, a bit stiffly. 

John feels his lips purse. “Yes, I can ask, or yes, you’d be up for this?” 

Sherlock swallows again. “The latter.”

John exhales a bit, mostly in relief. If Sherlock is even interested, that’s the first hurdle crossed. He hasn’t just gone and made their friendship horrendously awkward for life. Excellent. “Okay,” he says. “So – about the former, then…?” 

For a long moment Sherlock doesn’t speak. Then, just when John is about to carefully prompt him, he says, his tone devoid of any expression whatsoever, “There was one experience. I didn’t particularly enjoy it. It didn’t seem worth a second… attempt.”

One experience. John’s entire brain floods with curiosity. “Can I…” he starts, and Sherlock makes an impatient noise. 

“You know I used to use,” he says, sounding irritable. “It was in lieu of payment. One time, sixteen years ago. I had myself tested after and was clean. I don’t remember it all that clearly, if you want the lurid details, just that it wasn’t all that comfortable and I didn’t enjoy it. After that, I always just found the money and paid.”

John feels slightly rebuffed, and slightly badly for having pushed for the details. “I see,” he says. A small silence falls between them. 

Sherlock fidgets with a teaspoon, putting his finger on the edge and bouncing it up and down so that the handle taps lightly against the table. “You have a right to know, I suppose, if we’re talking about this,” he says, a bit less stiffly, his voice quieter. His eyes glance up under the messy curls falling over his forehead. “Do you think less of me for it?” 

John looks at him, startled. “What? No!” Sherlock looks dubious and he reassesses. “Well – I mean, it’s not ideal, is it? But everyone does things they regret sometimes. I’m not surprised that it wasn’t enjoyable, if it was a – a payment. I hope you weren’t hurt. And I’m glad you didn’t catch anything from it. But I don’t really think it’s my place to judge you for it. That was a long time ago.” 

Sherlock gives a very small smile and he doesn’t say anything. 

“For the record,” John adds, “I have every intention of making sure whatever we do is enjoyable for you, too. That’s only fair.”

“Oh, well – ” Sherlock starts, about to scoff this away, but John interrupts him. 

“I mean that,” he says firmly. “I don’t want to be the only one getting anything from it.”

Sherlock opens his mouth and then changes his mind and closes it again. John waits for a moment but he doesn’t say whatever he was going to say. 

“Are we agreed, then?” John asks after a moment has gone by. 

Sherlock nods. “Starting – tonight?” he asks, glancing over from under his fringe again. 

John tries a smile. “Could do,” he says. 

Sherlock nods once, as though filing this away, then gets up and goes over to his chair without another word, opening his laptop. 

John doesn’t know what to make of this, so he takes their mugs to the sink and quickly washes their supper dishes. Sherlock cooked, so it’s his turn for that. Sherlock’s actually been very good about making sure that he keeps up his end of the household responsibilities this time around and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. When the dishes are finished, he goes to his own chair and sits down with his laptop. He reads several emails, responds to one of them, then has a look at the notifications piling up on his facebook page. Perhaps forty-five minutes go by, and then Sherlock suddenly slams his laptop shut, startling him. 

“This is ridiculous,” he says impatiently, almost viciously. 

John looks up. “Sorry, what?” 

“We can’t just sit here pretending we’re not going to – have sex,” Sherlock snaps, completely irascible. 

John blinks and reminds himself that Sherlock’s sudden outburst is probably coming from nerves. “I didn’t think we were,” he says mildly. “I wasn’t, at least.”

“Well, I can’t just – write emails with it hanging over us,” Sherlock says, still irritable. He puts his laptop on the floor. “Let’s just get it over with.” 

John watches him stalk out of the sitting room in the direction of his bedroom and doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or sigh or explain about four thousand different things about how sex between two people actually functions and the rather crucial role that mood plays, but in the end he gets up and follows Sherlock down the corridor. Sherlock is already stripping off his shirt, unbuttoning the cuffs when John comes in. John stops in the doorway and just watches him for a moment. Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his presence as such, just briskly removes the shirt and goes to hang it in the closet. He starts unbuttoning his trousers. 

“Sherlock,” John says. 

Sherlock doesn’t stop, unzipping them and stepping out of them, pulling off his socks at the same time. 

“Sherlock,” John repeats, louder. “Wait a second.”

Sherlock turns around, holding the trousers in front of himself. “What?” 

“Just – slow down, would you?” John says, raking his fingers through his hair, the other hand on his hip. “It’ll be a lot more comfortable for both of us if we ease into this a bit.”

Sherlock’s lips compress, possibly in frustration. “Okay,” he says, a bit slower. “Then what do you want me to do?” 

“Well, for starters, I thought we could actually talk about that,” John says. He starts unbuttoning his own shirt, just to even the tables between them, so that Sherlock isn’t the only one standing around in his underwear. “I think it’s way too sudden to go from – well, one bad experience that you only partially remember from sixteen years ago to – to diving straight into the deep end.”

Sherlock looks even less sure of himself. “What do you suggest, then?” he asks. He looks a bit lost and John feels sorry for him. 

He gets his shirt off and quickly divests himself of his jeans, too. Honestly, he wasn’t quite expecting this to happen so suddenly, either. He showered this morning, but hasn’t made any other sort of preparations of any kind. “I thought we’d start simple,” he says, peeling off his socks and walking to the edge of the bed to face Sherlock over it. 

Sherlock’s eyes drift down his chest, skim his midsection, then settle around his crotch. “Like what?” he asks, eyes not moving. 

It’s so obvious that John can’t help but wonder if Sherlock can possibly not know that he’s doing it. He swallows down a smile and keeps his voice even and easygoing, as though he’s dealing with a very spookable animal. “Well – do you ever touch yourself?” he asks, very casually. 

Sherlock is holding a hanger in his right hand and his trousers clutched against himself, not making any effort to hang them up. “Yes,” he says, very directly, his eyes coming back up to John’s face. 

“In a specifically, er, sexual way?” John clarifies. “I mean, do you masturbate?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock repeats impatiently, and waits. 

“Then – ” John gestures at the bed. “Why don’t we start with that? Let’s just – do that, but together. Just to get used to the idea of being like that, being sexual around each other. What do you think?” 

Sherlock swallows, looking slightly pained, but he nods despite the creases in his brow. (It’s so difficult for him, John thinks, with a fleeting pang of pity.) “Okay,” he says, a bit strained. 

John gives him a quick smile and strips off his pants, leaving them on the floor beside the bed. Just talking about it has caused things to stir. He’s still mostly soft, but his cock has plumped out a bit, resting on his balls. He lifts the covers on the right side of the bed and gets in, not pulling them up over his lap. He pats the other side of the bed, where Sherlock is already standing by the closet and looks at him, waiting. 

Sherlock’s lips part, his eyes going directly to John’s cock again and staying there. He hangs up the trousers and turns quickly around to put them away, then just as quickly gets into the bed. John notices that Sherlock is already harder than he is, his cock flushed dark. 

It’s quite the eyeful, in fact. He’s bigger than John expected, somehow, both in length and girth. He tries not to stare, not wanting to make Sherlock feel any more uncomfortable than he obviously already is. Instead he curls his palm around his cock and gives it a bit of a rub, just to get himself harder. Sherlock’s legs are partly bent at the knee but sprawling open, even touching John’s, his hands cupped around himself as though trying to hide it without looking like he’s trying to hide it. John leans a shoulder into him. Just sitting beside each other in bed, naked, already feels quite intimate. For all the time they’ve known one another, they’ve certainly never done this. “Go on,” he says, his voice coming out a little lower than usual. “Get your hands on yourself, there. Keep me company.” He shifts his left leg so that it’s pressing into Sherlock’s more firmly, giving him a better view of what he’s doing. His erection is firming up just nicely now and he makes sure that Sherlock can see it. 

Sherlock exhales, his breath a bit shaky. He doesn’t say anything, but looks out the corner of his eyes at John’s cock-and-fist show and starts touching himself as surreptitiously as possible, using both hands as though for maximum coverage. The sight of it, the very suggestion of it, even, is enough to cover John’s skin in gooseflesh, a wave of arousal prickling through his body. “I can’t guarantee that this will be… fruitful for me,” Sherlock says in warning, though his breath is shallower than usual. “I’ve never done this with an audience before.”

“That’s fine,” John says, letting his eyelids drift halfway closed. It’s starting to feel rather good, particularly having someone watching him. In fact – “Are you watching?” he asks. “I want you to.” 

He opens his eyes just in time to catch Sherlock’s flicking guiltily away from his cock, his hands moving faster, the erection swelling stiffly up from his body. “You want me to?” he confirms, sounding both uncertain and interested. Definitely turned on. 

“Yeah,” John says, pushing into his fist with his hips and pinching his own nipples. “I like it. Never knew I did before right now.” 

Sherlock doesn’t laugh. He looks as though he’s concentrating far too hard on this, John thinks critically. 

“Have you got lube somewhere?” he asks. 

Sherlock nods, his eyes closed. “Top drawer.” 

John leans over and opens the drawer. It contains exactly one thing: a bottle of medical-grade lubricant. “Sexy choice,” he says, snorting, but sits back against the headboard again and squeezes some into his palm. “Hold out your hand.” 

“I’m all right.” 

“Come on,” John orders. “Take some. It’ll feel better.” Presumably Sherlock knows that, since he owns the stuff, but still. 

Sherlock holds out his right hand and accepts it without further argument, then resumes touching himself. 

John follows suit, stroking himself with long, firm strokes, watching Sherlock as inconspicuously as possible. Sherlock naked and sporting an erection that he’s touching is a sight indeed. He knows he’s thought about Sherlock like this, wondered if it would ever happen between them, but he hadn’t wanted to push it. Sherlock’s body is gorgeous, all long, lean limbs, his swell of his cock the only thick thing about him. Suddenly John wants to touch it more than anything. Sherlock is still masturbating as though it’s a labour, as though the pressure to make himself come is the most burdensome task anyone has ever assigned him. John leans in closer. “Does it feel good?” he asks, still wanking himself. 

Sherlock’s mouth and chin crunch up in frustration. “Yes, but – you’re distracting me,” he says, squeezing harder. 

“Can I – help?” John asks archly, taking his right hand off himself to put on Sherlock’s inner thigh, turning in toward him. 

Sherlock stops moving, his eyes opening. “‘Help’?” he repeats, sounding wary. “What do you mean? I don’t need advice; I’ve been doing this for the greater part of my life now – ”

“No,” John interrupts. “I mean, can I – ?” He slides his hand up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh in unmistakeable suggestion and Sherlock’s breath draws in sharply. He doesn’t say no, though. John glances up into his face and Sherlock gives a quick, grimaced nod. John wraps his fist around it and Sherlock hisses, bending forward over John’s arm. His cock swells and gets tangibly harder in John’s fist. “Okay?” he murmurs near Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock’s chin dips in another nod, his eyes screwed tightly shut. John begins to jerk him off, loving the way he can feel Sherlock’s flesh actively responding to his touch, the erection filling and filling until it’s harder than marble, the skin sliding over it, wetness gathering at the tip. He can feel and see Sherlock’s stomach clenching and releasing, feel his inner war about still trying to hide it. 

Suddenly he gasps and comes without warning, his torso doubling over his legs as his cock spurts several times. He goes completely still as the orgasm shudders through his body, lasting at least eight full seconds before the ejaculation stops and his muscles go limp. His hand is there then, pushing John’s away, possibly embarrassed, but John is so turned on he can barely stand it. He gets his hands back on himself, pumping hard, tugging at his balls with his other hand, touching his chest and stomach and then he comes with two gut-deep grunts of release, come arcing out of him and onto the blankets. He keeps rubbing himself and another jet sprays out, the last bits oozing out over his fist as he comes down, still touching himself and trying to catch his breath. He finally lets go and slumps back against the headboard beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock is still breathing hard, his cock lolling to the side, softening. Companionable silence falls as they sit there, each panting, their legs and the blankets spattered with come. “I’ll help you clean up,” John offers after a bit, letting his leg lean into Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock doesn’t pull his own away. “That’s all right,” he says. “I’ll take care of it.”

John turns to look at him. “Was that – okay?” he asks. “Not too bad?” 

“Not too bad,” Sherlock confirms. “Not bad at all.” 

John smiles at him. “Okay,” he says. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s thigh and pats it gently. “Then I’m going to head up. Good night.” 

“Good night,” Sherlock says, and that’s that: John gets up, collects his clothes, and smiles again on his way out. 

*** 

The next day, Sherlock is still asleep when he leaves for the clinic, but John receives a text around four-thirty, just before his last patient arrives. 

_Dinner tonight? I’ll come meet you_  
_at the clinic. We could go for sushi_  
_at that place you like?_

John smiles at his phone. It’s not like Sherlock to be so specific with his plans, or indeed, to plan at all. They dine out frequently, but it’s usually more of a spontaneous thing. He texts back, _Sure, I’m off at five._

Sherlock shows up at five – not even late, John marvels – and waits as John locks up and checks that his last patient’s husband is coming to pick her up as she’d said, and then they fall into step together like always, walking toward the restaurant. It’s three blocks from the clinic. “How was your day?” Sherlock asks, sounding a bit neutral. 

John’s begun to learn to read this as a cover for something else. Perhaps he’s not sure how the first morning after – though it’s really afternoon/evening after by now – is supposed to work. Whenever he tries ‘chatting’ it tends to come out this way. He answers as normally as possible. “Oh, fine,” he says. “Lots of ’flu shots this time of the year. One lady who thinks she has mono but she probably just needs a nap. A few sick kids. And an elderly man with a distended testicle.” 

Sherlock gives a short laugh at this. “Badly distended?” 

“It wasn’t pretty.” 

Sherlock gives him a sidelong look. “I take it mine seemed – normal to you?” 

John glances at him in surprise. There’s a small smile playing about the corners of Sherlock’s mouth and he recalculates – perhaps Sherlock isn’t feeling as nervous about the day after as he thought. “Very normal,” he says, and Sherlock’s smirk grows. 

“Good,” is all he says. A few steps later, he adds, “I hoovered.”

John feels his eyebrows lift in spite of himself. “Mrs Hudson will kill you,” he says. “You know she thinks we don’t know how to do it.” 

Sherlock makes a derisive sound. “Of course, it’s in our best interests to let her go on thinking that,” he says. “So I made sure to miss a large spot in the corner of the kitchen." 

John snickers. “You’re incorrigible.” 

Sherlock is chuckling, too, his deep baritone wonderfully amused. “I know.” 

After dinner, he hails a cab despite John’s protests that they could just take the bus. Sherlock ignores him and opens the door of the taxi that slows at the kerb and John follows him into it anyway. The ride back to the house is quiet but not uncomfortable at all. John is feeling pleasantly full of sushi and he’s still marvelling at how unusually hungry Sherlock seemed to be. It makes sense, though, he thinks to himself: perhaps last night awakened all of his appetites. 

This theory confirms itself as they get to the top of the stairs. Sherlock opens the door to the flat and shuts it behind John, then takes him by the wrist and tugs him toward his bedroom. “Come on,” he says vaguely. 

John’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, not even having taken his coat or shoes off. He thinks briefly about saying that he’s still a bit full, but bites back the idiotic words before he can accidentally let them spill out of his mouth. If Sherlock wants to do this, he is hardly going to be the one to rain on the parade! Inside the bedroom Sherlock is already taking off his coat and shoes, kicking them impatiently aside and rapidly removing pieces of clothing. John has to struggle to keep up with him. Sherlock goes around to the far side of the bed, his clothing left on the chair. He pushes back the blankets and gets in, exactly the same way they were last night. John eyes him, noting that his erection is already about two-thirds of the way hard and thinks, holy hell, he _did_ like it yesterday! Somehow it feels unexpected. He’s not complaining, though! He gets his underwear off and goes to the bed. 

Sherlock is holding the bottle of lubricant already, wanting to put some in John’s hands. “I want to do it again,” he says, in the most obvious statement he’s ever made in John’s hearing. “I want you to touch me again. If you would. And I want to try it on you, too.” 

“Okay,” John says, still feeling taken aback. He’s not nearly as hard as Sherlock is yet, but then, he’s also forty-one and used to at least developing a sense of mood first. Then again, that could take considerably less time than he’s used to, considering the visual feast before his eyes. The very memory of the feel of Sherlock’s cock in his hand has kept him on the edge of arousal all day as it is. 

Sherlock shifts closer so that their legs are touching again, and leans over to touch John immediately. John wants to protest, explain that he’s not quite ready yet, but his cock takes care of it before he can even start making excuses on its behalf, leaping to life in the heat of Sherlock’s hand. He’s stroking John with his right hand, his arm braced against John’s chest. The words die in John’s throat and he feels his breath punch out through his nose, his head falling back against the wall. He lets his legs fall open and tilts his hips upward and thinks, weakly, _shit._ If this is going to be a daily event, it's a damned good thing he made the suggestion for this arrangement. He’s never been with anyone who wanted it _daily_. This is like accidentally winning the lottery. He remembers himself and reaches over to get his fist around Sherlock’s cock again. Sherlock immediately makes a sound in his throat, a moan not quite held back entirely, his body spasming the instant John touches him, like a live wire. “I’ve – been thinking about this – all day,” he gets out with difficulty. 

Their arms are crossed over each other’s torsos as they stroke each other’s cocks but it’s not uncomfortable. Besides, John can’t focus on anything but the pleasure gathering between his legs, rock hard in the tight circle of Sherlock’s fist now. “I can tell,” he pants. “Given that – I’m surprised you bothered asking me out to dinner first.” 

It’s a joke – they’re not dating, obviously – but Sherlock makes an amused sound and says, “Seemed like the decent thing to do. I didn’t want to jump you as soon as you came home.”

John doesn’t point out that that’s more or less what happened anyway. “So you liked it, then,” he confirms, wanting to hear Sherlock say it. Perhaps he’ll come over all shy and awkward again like yesterday. 

Sherlock surprises him, though. “I did,” he agrees. “Much better than the other time.”

Well: that’s shown him, then. John supposes it was just a question of not having the relevant experience to feel as though he knew anything about what they were doing yesterday, what was permitted, how it was supposed to work. He’s probably spent all day researching sex or something. God help him. “Good,” John says, and that’s the last thing either of them says. Sherlock doesn’t seem to feel any compunction not to enjoy this, though he’s still curtailing the sounds his body is prompting him to make. Perhaps this being mutual makes him feel freer to let go, John thinks, panting as Sherlock’s fist flies over him. He puts his hand around it, holding it still as he thrusts into it himself, needing the feeling of fucking something to push him over the edge, and Sherlock squeezes unexpectedly on his fifth or six thrust and fireworks go off behind his eyes as he comes, gripping Sherlock’s fist with his own, pumping again and filling Sherlock’s palm with his come. 

Sherlock is groaning through his orgasm, John realises belatedly, unable to hold in the sounds. John clues in and speeds up his fist. Sherlock lets go of his cock and transfers his palmful of release to his own erection, their fingers tangling together on the length of his cock as they get him off, and it’s less than ten seconds later that Sherlock’s coming, bending forward again as though trying to hide it somehow, as though what’s happening is shameful, like he’s wetting the bed or something. John resolves blurrily to fix that at some point, reassure him that seeing another person orgasm is sexy as hell. When he’s spent, Sherlock sits up and flops back against the headboard, his right forearm draped over his head. The faint scent of his sweat is in the air, and John has a filthy, private moment of wanting to bury his face in Sherlock’s fine, auburn arm pit hair and drink in the scent of him. Sometime further down the road, maybe. His entire nervous system is still jangling with the after-effects of his climax. 

“This is going to be really good,” he says, sprawling against the headboard, himself. 

Sherlock is still breathing hard. “Had to make it worth your while, if you’re determined to stay,” he says after a bit. 

It confirms exactly what John thought: Sherlock _has_ been doing research. He’s still worried that if it’s not good enough, John will change his mind. John suppresses an inward sigh and thinks that Sherlock has absolutely nothing to worry about, not at this rate. 

*** 

The next morning is a Saturday and John wakes up in a strangely good mood. It takes him a moment to think of why this could be, and then he remembers getting off with Sherlock again last night after sushi. He smiles up at the ceiling. It’s surprising how easy it was, but it feels strangely natural at the same time. He pushes back the blankets and pads naked to pull on his striped dressing gown before going downstairs. 

Sherlock is already up, sitting in front of his microscope. “Good morning,” he says evenly when John comes into the kitchen. 

“Morning,” John says, and Sherlock glances up over the microscope and gives a short almost-smile. It’s not much, but it’s something, and John smiles privately to himself and goes to put on the kettle. “What are you looking at, there?” he asks, more to make conversation than because he’s curious. Normally when Sherlock’s in experiment-mode, he retreats and goes non-verbal for long stretches of time and John wants to keep him from withdrawing. 

“Your semen,” Sherlock says, sounding completely unfazed. 

John stops mid-step, then continues across the kitchen, flipping the switch on the kettle. “And here I thought you might be shy about the whole sex thing,” he says, very dryly, shaking his head. “I might have known.” 

Without looking up, Sherlock shrugs. “It’s just a bodily function. Why should I be shy?”

John decides to tactfully not point out how incredibly awkward Sherlock was at the very start and for most of their first time, tame as it was. Or how embarrassed Sherlock secretly seems to be over having an orgasm in front of him. He stands there, trying to decide what to say, but then Sherlock glances up at him again, his eyes crinkling a little. Is he smiling? John can’t see his mouth but thinks he might be. 

“It was fun,” he says, and John feels something in his chest and possibly also below the belt doing odd things. 

“Was it?” he asks, trying not to smile. “Good. I’m glad. Sex should be fun.” 

Sherlock changes the slides. “I’m just looking to amuse myself. You needn’t worry that I’m testing your genetic material or anything like that.”

“I wasn’t worried,” John says. It hadn’t occurred to him to think that Sherlock might be testing his come for diseases. “I _am_ clean, by the way. I had myself tested when Mary and I stopped, er, having sex.” 

“When was that?” Sherlock asks, his eyes very direct, illuminated from the microscope. When John looks a bit taken aback, Sherlock makes a slightly impatient sound and says, “What, can’t I know? If we’re going to be sexual partners, don’t I have insider privilege to this sort of information about you?” 

“No, of course,” John says, though his brain is still processing the term _sexual partners_. He hadn’t thought of it that way, that seriously. He’d been thinking more along the lines of flatmates getting each other off sometimes. Only a toe over the line of bro code. And maybe a safe way to indulge his long-time, mostly latent urges to experiment with the other side of the playing field. “Er, it was the honeymoon, I suppose. The inn in Brighton.” 

Sherlock blinks at him. “The honeymoon?” he repeats, sounding incredulous. “But what about after Christmas? After you went back to her? You can’t tell me it never happened _then_.” 

John shakes his head. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint. We were going to, once, but then we started fighting again, naturally. And after that things never even got close again. We couldn’t stand each other by the end, you know.”

“I remember,” Sherlock says, still watching him. He clears his throat. “So – if I may, what else do you have in mind? For this arrangement, I mean? I would just like to be adequately prepared.”

John isn’t sure what Sherlock means by ‘adequately prepared’ but decides not to ask. Perhaps he just means mentally. He shrugs. “I’m pretty open, to be honest,” he says. “There’s no rush to – I don’t know, escalate too quickly.” Sherlock looks slightly disgruntled by this (is he disappointed?), so John changes tactics. “There _are_ a few things I’d like to try, though, if you’re amenable,” he says, lowering his voice a little from the ordinary, conversational tone he was just using. Sherlock is being annoyingly prosaic about this. 

“Like what?” he asks, still unblinking, unruffled. 

“It depends a little,” John says slowly. “This isn’t just about me. I want to find out what you like.” 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Sherlock says dismissively, but at least he doesn’t try to claim that they’re only doing this for John’s sake. Not after he said it was _fun_. 

“It doesn’t matter, because you haven’t tried most of it,” John says slyly. “Have you ever had, for example, someone’s mouth on your skin? Anywhere on your body?” 

Sherlock pauses. “No.”

“Imagine it,” John tells him. “Imagine someone’s lips and tongue on your throat, you holding onto his hair instinctively because you need something to hold. Imagine the mouth moving down to your chest…” He trails off, gauging Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock is blinking and looking down but not at the microscope. “Next… well, if it were me, I’d want to see how you felt about having your nipples touched. I’d want to know if they were sensitive. I’d touch them with my fingers and then with my tongue.” He’s never done that, not with a man, but it can’t be all that different. And besides, he’s seen Sherlock’s chest many times and knows very well he was always interested in what he’s currently describing. 

Sherlock has both hands on the edge of the table, holding it in his long fingers. “Then what?” he asks, not looking up, and John thinks, _gotcha_. 

He takes a step forward and leans against the table, looking down at Sherlock across it. “Then I’d make my way lower,” he says, his voice even softer. “I’d lean my cheek into your crotch just to feel whether or not you’re aroused by now. Let’s say you are. I’d bury my face between your legs, just feeling your hardness through your trousers for a moment before unzipping them and getting them off you. I’d put my mouth on you, through your pants, feeling the heat of it against my face, taking in what you smell like. Maybe I’d slide my hands up the back and squeeze your arse under your pants, running my mouth over the outline of your cock in the front.”

“… John…” Sherlock exhales, sounding pained, his fingers clenching the edge of the table, the smug this-is-completely-normal-ness gone from his voice now. 

John ignores him and goes on. “And then I’d pull down your underwear with my teeth and get a good look at you, hard and thick in front of my eyes. Your cock is thicker than I thought it would be, by the way. I like it. I’d lick it from base to tip and then run my tongue around the head. You’d be leaking a little, I think, and I’d want to taste it. I’d hold it with one of my hands and keep squeezing your arse with the other, and then I’d take the head into my mouth and rub my tongue against it, feel its texture. You’d leak some more then, and I’d – ”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock repeats, more urgently. “Stop t – ”

“ – start sucking properly,” John goes on mercilessly, aware of Sherlock’s discomfort. “I’d get as much of my mouth on you as possible, sliding my lips up and down you. You’ve never tried that, so you don’t know how incredibly good it can feel – honestly, it’s one of the best things there is, and I want to make sure you get to experience that, what a tongue and a pair of lips on the most sensitive part of your body can feel like. I’d keep going and you’d probably put your hands in my hair again, because you’d be feeling so desperate that you’d need to hold onto something, anything, and I’d let you. Maybe you’re the sort who prefers to thrust into the giver’s mouth, so that it feels like penetration – ”

Sherlock gives a long, convulsing shudder, finger nails white where they’re digging into the table. A hiss of breath escapes his clenched teeth after a second or two, his face turning red, teeth bared in a grimace as he shudders again, and John is exultant.

He just succeeded in making Sherlock come in his pants. The thought goes directly to his cock, which hasn’t been entirely soft throughout this, and now it’s already harder. He comes around the table to stand behind Sherlock, rubbing his shoulders as the orgasm begins to let up. “Just a bodily function,” he teases. He bends to press his chest into Sherlock’s back, reaching around to rub at his chest as it heaves. “Teach you to underestimate the value of sex.”

“That was humiliating,” Sherlock grits out, when he can speak again. “Why did you do that to me?” 

He sounds irritable and indeed, his cheeks are stained red, though some of that probably came from holding his breath, John thinks. He turns his chest rubbing into a hug. “Nonsense,” he says, his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear. “It was just an experiment. I told you: I’m figuring out what you like. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

“I just – ”

“I know,” John says, soothingly. “I wanted you to. It’s incredibly arousing, you know.” 

That seems to give Sherlock pause. “Is it?” he asks dubiously. 

John lets him hear the smile in his voice. “Turn around and see for yourself,” he says in suggestive tones. 

He straightens up so that Sherlock can turn on his stool, his eyes going directly to John’s crotch rather than his face, avoiding his eyes. “I can’t see it properly through your dressing gown,” he complains, still sounding tetchy. John unties the sash and lets the gown slide off his arms and onto the floor. His erection is standing out tall and proud now and Sherlock’s eyes devour it. “Oh,” he says in a different voice. “I see.” 

“You could… help me with it, if you want,” John invites. 

Sherlock blinks at it for a moment or two. “What do you want me to do?” he asks cautiously. 

“Anything you like,” John says grandly, recklessly. “Touch it. However you want.” 

Sherlock studies it for another moment, then reaches for John and pulls him closer by the arse cheek, slides down to the floor on his knees and puts his mouth on it. 

John’s legs just about give out. Despite how much his little spiel could be taken as an obvious hint, he honestly hadn’t thought that Sherlock would be up for that so soon into this, though he’d had his fingers crossed for further down the road. He’s looked at the luscious lips currently wrapped around his cock dozens and dozens of times and imagined what they would look like in this position. And seeing it now is nothing short of incredible. The reality is far better than any of his very private fantasies. He’d thought that Sherlock might be up for wanking him off, or at least watching John do it to himself, maybe letting him come on his chest after or something. This is infinitely better. He groans out loud and Sherlock proceeds to suck him exactly the way John just described, as though John read him a manual on how to do it. It’s much less satisfying to come untouched the way Sherlock just did and John privately resolves to make it up to him later with his very first blow job as the giver, and Sherlock’s very first as the recipient. This deserves thanks. It’s surreal, standing here in the middle of the kitchen on a Saturday morning, naked as the day he was born, with Sherlock on his knees, gripping his hips with both hands and sucking him down as though both their lives depend on it, every ounce of his not inconsiderable focus on getting him off. John groans again, then tugs at Sherlock’s hair to give fair warning. Sherlock doesn’t let him go, so he says it again. “Sherlock – I’m – ”

Sherlock abruptly releases him just as John starts coming, and it lands directly on his parted lips and gets all over his chin and neck and John moans, feeling both badly and exhilarated at the same time as the high of the orgasm arcs through his body. He can’t stop coming and Sherlock isn’t moving away, just kneeling there, licking his lips as John’s dick keeps spattering out dribbles of come. It’s completely filthy and John is still groaning, both hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair, his cock twitching as Sherlock leans forward to lick at it, cleaning him off and then sucking at the head again, which makes it spurt out another bit of come. It feels so good that John wishes he could keep coming right there and then.

Sherlock doesn’t seem at all bothered by it, either by the taste or the fact that John just came all over his face – which was his own fault for not listening, but even so. “God,” John breathes, reaching up to touch his sweaty forehead. “That was – ”

Sherlock sits back on his heels and looks up at him, looking somewhat satisfied with himself, and vastly less unhappy than he did before. “Was it?” he asks. “Satisfactory, then?” 

“Very much so,” John confirms. He offers Sherlock a hand up and for a brief, strange moment, almost feels like he should kiss him or something. But this isn’t that: this is just two friends having a mutually satisfactory relationship. He nods down at Sherlock’s midsection. “You probably want a shower,” he says. “Go ahead. And – I’ll make it up to you later.”

Sherlock’s shoulders settle an inch or two, but all he says is, “All right.” He goes to the doorway of the kitchen, then turns back. “How much later?” 

There’s a glint in his eye and John, stooping to retrieve his dressing gown, grins. He’s really let himself in for it, he thinks. “Get out of here,” he says, and with the ghost of a grin in return, Sherlock takes himself off to shower. 

*** 

The arrangement is going amazingly well, John marvels more than once over the next week or two. Sherlock is pleasantly open-minded. John has spared him the embarrassment of being made to come in his pants again, and they get each other off every day, sometimes twice. Sometimes it’s nothing more than tossing each other off on the sofa while the news is on. Other times Sherlock surprises him, waiting just inside the flat door for John to come home from the clinic and attacking him right there, dragging him off to the bedroom. One time they hadn’t even got their clothes off, just frotting together until they’d both come in their pants. After that they’d showered together and John had introduced Sherlock to his own arse, slipping a finger up there and incidentally also discovering Sherlock’s ability to come twice in the space of forty minutes. Normally it just happens in the late evening, though. They sit or lie in Sherlock’s bed and either rub each other off or something else. John’s first blow job was quite a success and sometimes they take turns going down on each other. And after, they always separate, John going up to his own bed, satisfied and pleasantly tired out. 

One morning Sherlock appears in his room in the pre-dawn hours. John wakes to find him standing beside his bed and squints sleepily up at him. “Sherlock? What is it? Is something wrong?” 

“No,” Sherlock says, and shifts his weight. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought maybe I’d… come up here?” 

John’s sleepy brain takes a moment to process this, but then he nods and shunts over in the bed to make room for Sherlock. “To sleep?” he asks, clarifying. 

Sherlock lifts the blankets and gets in beside him, his hand going automatically to cup between John’s legs. “Not necessarily,” he says, his voice dropping into something approaching a purr, and John’s body and brain come awake at an accelerated speed after that. They both fall asleep again after, but when John wakes around ten (it’s a Sunday, after all), Sherlock has already taken himself back downstairs again. Nothing seems out of the ordinary when John pads down, yawning and helping himself to the coffee Sherlock’s already made. 

“Brunch?” Sherlock suggests. They do often go out for brunch on the weekends, and John agrees readily, smiling at him and thinking how nice life has got. 

They go about everything as usual. The only difference is that now they’re having sex, or something very much like it (John’s never been sure about the precise definitions). It hasn’t changed anything except to make Sherlock a bit more relaxed overall. Poor bloke, John thinks, more than once. He just needed to get laid in the worst way. This is as good for Sherlock as it is for him, which takes any guilt out of the fact that he sort of – no, he didn’t threaten Sherlock into this. He never said that he _would_ leave if Sherlock didn’t want to help him solve the problem of his sexual needs. Still, though, he knows that Sherlock worried about it before, and this is definitely making John want even more to stay for life, so it’s good for both of them in that sense, too. And besides, Sherlock is a much more sensual person than he prefers to let on, which has also been a pleasant discovery. He still gets a bit embarrassed about his orgasms, as though letting go so completely in front of another person is too private a revelation, but it’s a little better than it was. 

And meanwhile, they have cases. Two of them now, since their arrangement started, though Sherlock solved the first one before an entire day had gone by. Lestrade had been impressed, and commented on Sherlock’s good mood, wanting to know what was going on. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock had said breezily. “It was easy, that’s all. If you had only thought to look at the victim’s brooch, you wouldn’t have even needed me. Come on, John. Let’s go out for dinner. I’m starving.” 

John had shot a semi-embarrassed grin at Lestrade and they’d gone. Today they’re at the Yard, or they’ve just arrived, at any rate. There was a heart-pounding foot race through Soho before John had tackled the embezzling city boy to the pavement, holding him there with a knee in the back until Lestrade caught up and cuffed him. Now they’re sifting through pile upon pile of dull financial paperwork, and Sherlock’s mood has turned irritable. It’s boring, John thinks, not really blaming him. Still, though – Lestrade has already sniped at Sherlock twice and Sherlock has nearly bitten his head off in response. Lestrade throws up his hands in exasperation and says something about going to find a coffee. 

“Hey,” John says after he’s gone, keeping his voice down. “You could go a little easier on him. This is dull for all of us, you know.” 

Sherlock fidgets impatiently. “It’s not that,” he says, not looking at John. 

John goes a bit closer and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Then what is it?” 

Sherlock looks up and into his eyes and swallows, his pupils flooding his irises, his tongue coming out to touch his lower lip, and the answer so plain that John wonders how he missed it. He’s aroused, not bored. 

“Oh Lord,” he says. “ _Here?_ ” 

“Please, John,” Sherlock says, a bit breathlessly. “I’ve been half hard since Soho. It’s driving me mad.” 

John looks around the office. The room they’re in is glass on all sides. “Well, not right here,” he says, lowering his voice and glancing to see if anyone is in ear shot. “Come on – let’s go find a gents’ or a closet or something.” 

Sherlock doesn’t object, following him closely. John leads the way down a corridor between the cubicles and thinks of the only toilets on the floor. It’s a big one and there are always people in it. He spots a utility cupboard of some sort and, peering around first, opens it to have a look. There are a couple of brooms and an assortment of cleaning supplies, but otherwise it’s fairly roomy. “This will do,” Sherlock says, practically breathing down his neck and crowding him into it. 

“Whoa, jeez,” John says, nearly tripping as Sherlock unceremoniously pushes him inside, pulling the door closed after. This leaves them in total darkness, which oddly makes John feel slightly self-conscious. It’s somehow more intimate than they usually are, no matter how many times they’ve got each other off now. “Turn around,” he says. “I don’t want you coming all over my clothes.” Sherlock makes a sound of agreement and does as he’s told. John reaches around him, the bulk of his coat getting in the way. “You could have taken off your coat first,” he points out. 

“I really couldn’t,” Sherlock says, dark humour in his tone, and John snickers. 

“I see,” he says, and rubs a hand over the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “Oh, my. I _do_ see. What brought this on, in the middle of the day?” He presses himself up against Sherlock to get both arms around him and the coat both, unzipping his trousers and pulling out the rock-hard cock all but bursting out of them. 

Sherlock makes a sound of desperation as John starts stroking him in long, smooth motions, hips jerking forward instinctively. “You,” he says, the very syllable strained. “Just – the way you tackled the embezzler – ah – just the way you get, like that – I can’t explain it, just – oh God, yes – please – ”

John has almost never seen him gagging for it so badly, and it’s a huge turn-on, to be frank. He’s a bit puzzled; Sherlock has never reacted to him doing what they always do in a situation like that before – at least, not to his knowledge, but here he is, trembling and making little sounds that are a mixture of breath and need in his throat, his cock as big and hard as it gets, jerking and shuddering in John’s hands. He comes less than five minutes into it, almost as quickly as he did their first time together, decorating the wall of the closet with copious output, one of John’s hands clamped over his mouth to stifle the sounds he’s making. 

By that time, he’s practically gagging for it himself, pressed up against Sherlock’s back through the coat and his jeans. Sherlock sags in his arms for a minute or two, panting, then turns around, his hand sliding between them to cup the outline of John’s erection. Still breathing hard, he sinks to his knees and they get John’s jeans open jointly. “No mess this way,” he says, and gets his mouth on John’s cock before his balls have even been lifted carefully out over the teeth of his zip. He pushes the jeans down a bit and Sherlock digs all ten fingers into his arse, pulling John further and further into his mouth. He’s tried a bit of deep-throating before but never right from the beginning like this. John exhales heavily, the softness of Sherlock’s throat swallowing and squeezing around his cock. This time he can’t help it – he holds Sherlock’s head by the hair and pumps, pulling out long enough to let him breathe every so often. It’s good, it’s so very, very good – he’s thrusting hard now and Sherlock isn’t protesting. If anything, he’s encouraging it, exhaling hard through his nose where it’s buried in John’s lower belly and John loses it and comes down his throat. His hands are gripping Sherlock’s head, keeping his mouth exactly where it is as he pumps out burst after burst of come. Sherlock gags a little but makes no effort to pull away, his throat spasming around John’s flesh. 

John finally pulls out, gasping and seeing stars. “God,” he pants. “You’re _amazing_ , you’re absolutely incredible – ” He’s babbling, but this particular high is just about unparalleled and it’s going to take awhile to top, frankly. 

Sherlock gets to his feet again, tucking John’s sensitive, still-twitching cock back into his jeans and zipping them up. “Good,” he says, his voice coming out hoarse, and the hoarseness is hot, too. 

“Oh God,” John says. “I’ve made you sound like a whore.”

“I’ll just say that I’m coming down with a sore throat if anyone asks,” Sherlock says. There’s the sound of him rearranging his own clothes and then he says, “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” John says. “Let’s get out of here before anyone comes by.” 

“I doubt the cleaning closet is in much demand during the day,” Sherlock assures him. He stops, turning back, or so it sounds like from his voice. “Thank you for that.” 

John shrugs in the dark of the closet, knowing Sherlock can’t see it. “What are friends for?” he asks rhetorically, and it’s only slightly sardonic. 

*** 

Two mornings later, John comes out of the shower in his dressing gown and goes to the cupboard to get out a mug for tea. They’re all dirty, though, so he decides to tackle the dishes instead. It’s a Friday but he’s up earlier than he needed to be. Sherlock is still in bed. John was in his room a bit later than usual; they’d ended up talking over the case after getting off and it had gone longer than John had meant. He’d almost fallen asleep there, actually, but dragged himself off upstairs to his own room around one. It’s only half-past seven now, and although he doesn’t need to leave until half-past eight, he likes to have time for breakfast. Pity Sherlock’s not up, though he’s not really a morning person. 

It’s strange, John thinks, pushing the dishcloth into the soapy depths of a mug. One might think that after all this time, they might have got used to each other enough that they don’t want to spend as much time together any more, but instead he finds himself constantly wanting to spend more time with Sherlock, not less. Especially now that their arrangement has started, though obviously the added benefit of getting sex out of it must be an incentive. Although – no, he thinks, frowning as he sets the mug in the drying rack and starting on another. It’s not that. It’s just Sherlock. They just never run out of things to talk about, they like doing a lot of the same things (mould experiments and liver dissections at the kitchen table notwithstanding), they live together well, and they can even work together. And now they can apparently have quite an active and satisfying sex life together, too. It’s perfect, really. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock’s sleep-scratchy voice from the doorway of the kitchen makes him jump. John turns over his shoulder, his hands still in the water, and smiles. Sherlock is leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a sheet. “You startled me. And in fact, I was thinking about you, actually,” he says, smiling. 

“Oh?” Sherlock’s tone is arch, despite his voice still being rough. “What were you thinking, precisely?” 

“Just last night. How we can always talk. All of that,” John says. 

Sherlock comes over and reaches for the belt of his dressing gown, untying it. He lowers his face to the back of John’s neck, pulling the gown down. “You’re all warm from the shower. I didn’t even hear it.” 

“I’m surprised you’re up now already,” John says, aware that his cock is already stirring at Sherlock’s very touch. 

Sherlock makes a _hmm_ -ing sound of agreement. “I heard the cups clinking,” he says, and tugs the sleeves off over John’s wet hands, leaving him nude. “Look at you,” he says, his voice still scratchy. “Just standing there naked, still washing the cups.”

He’s pressed up against John, tangibly hard through the bunched up layers of the sheet. “Do you want me to stop doing this?” John asks, lifting an eyebrow, face half-turned back over his shoulder. 

“No,” Sherlock says, his breath warm on John’s neck. “Don’t stop.” He reaches around for John’s cock with his left hand, his right on John’s arse, rubbing circles. John breathes deeply and attempts to keep his hands moving in the water. Sherlock makes a slightly disgruntled sound and looks around, then opens the upper cupboard to the left. He takes out the bottle of sesame oil and flicks the lid open with his thumb, both hands temporarily leaving John’s skin. He pours a bit into his hands, rubbing it into his fingers, and doing so makes his sheet loosen and slither to the floor. “Oops,” he says, obviously not caring.

The nutty scent of the oil rises tantalisingly into the air. There is a particular stir-fry that Sherlock makes with sesame oil and John thinks that he is never going to smell it or eat it again without thinking of whatever’s about to happen. He shivers as Sherlock finds his cock again, rubbing the fragrant oil into his skin. The fingers of his other hand settle like a ghost over the crack of John’s arse this time, his long middle finger slipping in and pressing against his entrance. It’s a bit startling – he’s done this to Sherlock a few times now, but Sherlock’s never tried it on him before now. It’s tight, but the hand on his cock is thoroughly distracting at the same time. John gets the mug he was washing into the rack without particularly caring whether it’s clean or not, his hands fumbling. Another one, that’s right, concentrate. Sherlock’s finger breaches him and John attempts to control his breathing, his cock pulsing and squirming in Sherlock’s other hand. Sherlock is standing very close to him, his breath stirring John’s hair, his own erection pressing unabashedly into John’s hip. His finger works John open without hurry, slick with oil, and it’s not uncomfortable now. In fact, once his brain has processed the notion of having something up there in the first place, it’s not bad at all. Sherlock twists and presses and suddenly all of the air sucks itself out of John’s lungs and he hastily revises, _no, not bad at ALL_ as his prostate lights up like a firecracker. His mouth falls open, gasping for breath, his body awash with sensation. The mug in his hands clatters to the bottom of the sink. Sherlock is fingering him vigorously, his other hand simultaneously pumping away at his cock and John feels like he’s twisting mid-air, caught between the two sensations. The mugs are forgotten, his hands dangling uselessly in the warm water and a bit of drool slips embarrassingly from the corner of his mouth. He is going to come and come _hard_. 

Sherlock is breathing hard, too, his breath warm on John’s temple as he ratchets John’s body closer and closer toward its peak. When John makes a sound one could only possibly describe as a wail and jerks against Sherlock’s chest, coming lavishly all over the cabinets, Sherlock exhales in a moan but doesn’t take his hands from John’s body until he’s completely spent, leaning limply back against Sherlock. 

He can feel how hard Sherlock is, but the strength of his orgasm has left him weak. He should turn around, do something to get Sherlock off in return. After a moment, he recovers enough to turn around and lean up against the counter, his wet hands dripping. “Holy fuck,” he breathes. “That was something else! I should – ”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock says, already touching himself with the hand that was inside John a moment ago. “I can take care of it.” He smirks a little, as though pleased to have reduced John to such a useless state. 

John watches him. Sherlock is standing very close to him, their thighs touching. This would be a spectacularly bad time for Mrs Hudson to pop in, although a few minutes ago would have been infinitely worse. Sherlock’s fist is flying along himself, and they’re both watching it. John puts his wet hands on his chest, pressing his thumbs into Sherlock’s nipples, which peak even further under his touch – he’s discovered that they’re very sensitive. “Yeah, come on,” he murmurs, encouraging Sherlock. “Come on me. Come all over me.” 

Sherlock makes a small sound in his throat and then does exactly that, his balls twitching visibly and then emptying themselves in hot bursts onto John’s lower belly. He groans, grimacing, and another round judders out of him. John pulls him in so that Sherlock can lean against him as he comes down, his body turning heavy and pliant, his breath rasping in John’s ear. After a bit, he separates himself from John and picks up his sheet, wrapping it around himself again. “I’m going to shower,” he says, as though everything is back to complete normal now. “Have a nice day at work.”

“Thanks,” John says, a bit amused by this, at how prosaic it is. Sherlock disappears down the corridor. “Sherlock!”

“Hmm?” comes floating back. 

“Dinner later? Meet me at the clinic?” John asks spontaneously, going to the doorway of the kitchen. 

Sherlock turns around and smiles at him. “Certainly.” 

John smiles back, his chest warming. “See you later, then.” 

Sherlock makes a vague sound and shuts himself in the bathroom, and John goes back into the kitchen feeling sated and extremely happy. The kettle has long since boiled and shut itself off, so he switches it on again, picks up his dressing gown and puts it back on, then goes to dry a mug for his tea. 

*** 

It’s quickly become the highlight of every day, John thinks. Not just all of the sex, which has been fantastic, but all of the other moments with Sherlock, too. They’re just friends with (considerable) benefits, but everything else is a little more affectionate, too. Sherlock will sit very close to him on the sofa, sometimes even draping an arm around his shoulders, particularly if it’s getting close to bedtime. This is a daily thing now; they always have sex in some form before they go to sleep, always in Sherlock’s room, and then John goes upstairs to sleep in his own room. Sometimes there’s another time during the day, too, whether it’s one of them joining the other in the shower or something happening in the kitchen before or after supper. Or breakfast. Or when John gets home from work. All right, so there are no times of day which are completely off-limits. Sherlock seems to be delighting in his newfound libido as much as John is, and he feels completely satisfied with their arrangement. He doesn’t need romantic love. He just needs his cock seen to every so often, and Sherlock is making more than good on his agreement to do exactly that. 

Their unspoken rule of not sleeping together gets broken that night, though. Oddly, they’re in John’s room. It was time for bed and he’d bought some new lube to try out. “I’ll just go up and get it,” he’d said, but Sherlock had just got off the sofa and followed him upstairs. 

“Let’s try it here this time,” he’d suggested, and John had agreed, not minding at all. “Easier for you than dragging yourself out of my bed and coming back up. This time it can be my turn to have to leave.” 

“All right,” John agreed. Sherlock has clearly noticed his increasing reluctance to leave the warm haven of Sherlock’s bed to go back upstairs. They’d got into his bed and stroked each other off, their legs messily intertwined, and after they’d just lain there, talking, hands still rubbing over each other’s backs and arses (particularly Sherlock, who seems to have a bit of a fascination with John’s arse). And then he doesn’t quite remember how it happened, but they must have fallen asleep. They both wake when John’s alarm goes off and John is startled to find himself wrapped around Sherlock like an octopus when his eyes open. They’re in the same positions they must have been in when they fell asleep, only even closer – Sherlock’s arms and legs are twined all around him, too. They look at each other in sleepy confusion for a moment, then Sherlock disentangles himself to turn over and shut off the alarm. 

“Sorry,” he says, his voice scratchy. “I guess I fell asleep.” 

“It’s not a problem,” John says, and it isn’t. 

Sherlock sits up. “I should get downstairs before Mrs Hudson comes up with tea. It’s Friday. She always brings tea on Fridays.”

He sounds slightly nervous, John thinks, though it’s unnecessary. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he says. “I need to shower before I go to work; I have come all over myself.”

Sherlock snickers, sounding more like himself. He picks up his clothes and puts on his underwear and shirt, not bothering to button it, then goes downstairs. 

Through the open door, John hears Mrs Hudson’s voice exclaiming. Oh, perfect, he thinks, and goes to the top of the stairs to shamelessly listen in. 

“It’s not what you think,” Sherlock is saying crossly. “Really. Stop that.”

“Well, I certainly know what it _looks_ like,” Mrs Hudson says coyly. She sounds absolutely tickled. 

Sherlock lowers his voice and John has to strain to hear the next part. “I mean it,” he insists. “This isn’t – we’re not – it’s only physical. It’s just a matter of convenience, that’s all. We’re still just friends.”

Mrs Hudson starts to object, but Sherlock overrides her, saying something else that John isn’t able to catch, and then their voices stop – presumably Sherlock has gone to his room or the bathroom or something. John takes his time pulling on his dressing gown, then ties it firmly and goes downstairs. Mrs Hudson is still in the kitchen, so he gives her an awkwardly hearty smile and good morning and goes to make coffee, mostly so that his back will be to her. He can feel her eyes on his back. 

She comes over, standing near him but not trying to make him look at her. “Don’t mind me saying,” she says, careful to keep her voice down. “But I hope you know what you’ve got yourself into. It’s not my place and I’m not going to ask. But do be careful with him, won’t you, dear? I wondered what he’s been so happy about lately. I didn’t know. I just hope you both know what you’re doing, with – whatever this is.”

John sets the filter in place and shuts the chamber. He clears his throat. “I think we do, yeah,” he says, also quietly. For some reason he doesn’t want Sherlock knowing they’re talking about this. “It’s fine, Mrs Hudson. Really. And I’m happy about it, too.” 

She doesn’t say anything, her silence dubious. Then she pats his arm. “Good, then,” she says, and moves off. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Have a lovely day, dear.” 

“You, too,” John says, but she’s already on the stairs. 

*** 

That night, they’re back in Sherlock’s room, twined together, frotting against each other, each with a finger buried in the other’s arse. It feels dirty and intimate and insanely good, their cocks sliding against each other. John has a leg up around Sherlock’s back and their arms are tangled, crossing over each other’s. Sherlock is panting against his forehead as they thrust against each other and John can feel just from the way his cock feels that he must be quite close. He is, too, and he both wants to come and wants to just go on doing this all night. It’s Saturday tomorrow. He can sleep in, unless a case comes up. What would be so wrong with that, if he just stayed and they went on doing this all night, as often as their bodies are up for it? 

It would get too complicated, he knows. It’s regrettable, but he knows it’s true. It’s why they never kiss – they’re not like that. This isn’t – they’re not dating. This isn’t love. Well, it _is_ – as they’ve both said, openly and without difficulty, they absolutely love each other. Sherlock is the best friend he’s ever had. But friendship plus sex still isn’t love. It’s sort of ideal, in a way – all the benefits of a sexual relationship without the complication of it being that sort of relationship. 

His thoughts dissolve as his orgasm approaches. Sherlock has two fingers in him, thrust as deeply as they can go, and it feels so good that John wonders if he should maybe suggest they give penetrative sex a try sometime (though perhaps that would put them across a certain line that needs to be kept in place). Either way – Sherlock gasps and comes, and it’s so erotic that John hears himself groaning, his leg tightening around Sherlock as he thrusts hard into Sherlock’s spurting cock, panting, and then joins him in the climax. Their mutual release is squishing and sliding between them and at the moment it only heightens everything, warm and intimate between them. John’s brain goes fuzzy around the edges, his body spent and heavy. 

Sherlock wraps both arms around him, his head leaning against John’s, their bodies touching all the way down their fronts and it’s dizzyingly wonderful. If it were anyone else, John knows they would be kissing at this point. As it is… perhaps this _is_ too much. He doesn’t say it, though, doesn’t tell Sherlock to let go. His own arm is holding Sherlock close, too, saying the very opposite, in fact. After several moments of feeling Sherlock’s heart beating against his chest, Sherlock lets go on his own. “Sorry,” he says, his voice sounding oddly stiff considering how relaxed his body feels against John’s. He pulls away. “You’ll be wanting to get upstairs.” 

For a second John is tempted to just stay, propose that they just spend the night doing this, but it’s against his better judgement. So he sighs and agrees. “I should, yeah.” He rolls out of the bed and picks up his clothes. He stops in the door. “You could always come up and wake me if I’m not up before you,” he says, looking back. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. Then he makes an interested sound and says, “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” 

It’s a vague non-answer, but John decides not to question it. “Good night, then,” he says, and goes upstairs wondering why he feels so empty. He supposes it’s a natural drawback of having this sort of arrangement. It’s just sex, not feelings. When it’s just sex, you leave when it’s over. Cuddling is for lovers. 

He gets into his own, cold bed and goes to sleep hoping that Sherlock will come up in the morning, after all. 

*** 

He does, to John’s relief, waking him by crawling up the foot of the bed and between John’s legs to wake him with his mouth on John’s soft, sleepy cock. John’s phone pings with a text as Sherlock is sucking him, and he ignores it. It pings again just before he comes, and then again as he is coming down Sherlock’s long throat, Sherlock’s mouth and nose pressed directly against his body, one of John’s legs hooked over his back. When Sherlock’s mouth is unoccupied again, he says with annoyance, “For God’s sake, who wants to talk to you this badly on a Saturday morning?” 

John reaches for his phone. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Bit distracting.” 

“Much too distracting. I prefer being able to concentrate, particularly when I’m doing that to you.” Sherlock sounds as grumpy as a child whose birthday party has been spoiled, to John’s amusement. 

“It’s Lestrade,” he tells Sherlock. “There’s been a murder.”

Sherlock looks pained, almost agonised, and they both look at his erection without meaning to. He hasn’t come yet and it wouldn’t be fair. Plus, John thinks, fictional as death by blue balls is, in Sherlock’s case he thinks it could actually happen. 

“Let me get you off first,” he says firmly. “The body will wait.”

He’s fully expecting Sherlock to protest, if weakly, but it’s a mark of how badly he wants it that he doesn’t. He hesitates momentarily, then nods. 

“What do you want?” John asks him. “We can do anything you like.” 

Sherlock bites his lip and sits up on the blankets, pushing them back. “You could just – touch me,” he says. “It would be quick. Especially given – ” He indicates the state of his erection, which is just about at the bursting point as it is. 

John strongly suspects that Sherlock likes being held through it, though, so he agrees and says, “Come here, then.” He shows Sherlock where he wants him and Sherlock scrambles to put himself there, sitting sideways between John’s legs, the left one curled around him. John hooks his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder so that he can keep his left arm around him and watch while his right hand curls around Sherlock’s stiff prick and starts jerking him off. Sherlock’s body always responds the instant John touches it, jerking and pulsating against his palm, and John thinks again admiringly of how large and satisfyingly thick it is and how good it feels in his hand. Sherlock’s entire body responds every time John touches him, pressing into the curve of his arm and shivering as John strokes his cock. It’s beautiful, honestly, John can’t help thinking, stealing a look at Sherlock’s face. His eyes are closed, his brow and the bridge of his nose creased, his full lips parted, his pulse fluttering in his throat. John sort of wants to put his tongue on that vein and feel Sherlock’s pulse for himself, kiss his long, graceful neck. It would get weird, though. He settles for tightening his arm around Sherlock and speeding up his fist, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive head. Sherlock’s cock is flushed dark, leaking profusely. He makes a choked sound, just a bit of breath escaping too quickly, and then he’s coming, his release arcing over the blankets and landing on the sheets. John makes a sound of satisfaction and keeps stroking until Sherlock stops coming and the tension seeps out of his shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he says, his face quite close to John’s but not facing him. He puts his hand over John’s where it’s still loosely holding his cock. “You didn’t have to. But thank you.” 

“I wouldn’t have left you hanging,” John assures him. He squeezes his arm around Sherlock one last time, then lets go and says, “Come on. We’ve got a body to go examine now.” 

“And a crime scene,” Sherlock says, but John thinks he sounds distracted, as if he were thinking about something else entirely. 

*** 

The case is solved quickly, largely owing to the help of the perpetrator’s secretary, a thirty-three-year-old woman named Allison. Allison is blond and has big blue eyes and a full-lipped, curving smile, and it’s not lost on John that she’s been flirting with him all day. He’s mostly staved it off, focusing on the case with Sherlock, but even Sherlock is sincere when he thanks her at the end of the day. Without her information, it would have taken them days or weeks, he tells her. John turns to go, but she clears her throat and gives Sherlock a pointed look, which Sherlock actually seems to get. He turns, leans in toward John and says, under his breath, “Just do it. It’s fine.”

John glances at Allison and sees that she’s studying her nails and too obviously lingering. He doesn’t know how Sherlock actually managed to read in that she’s waiting around hoping he’ll ask her out, but for once it seems he gets it. But – this opens an enormous can of worms. The entire reason John proposed their current – very satisfactory, altogether pleasant – arrangement is specifically so that he wouldn’t be tempted to date any more. He doesn’t want to leave Sherlock or have nothing but short, meaningless relationships with other people, and so far the compromise has been working just fine, at least for him. Though for Sherlock, too, he very much thinks. They’ve both been very happy. So why is Sherlock encouraging this? He looks at him, both startled and confused. “What do you mean?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “Seriously? Why?” 

Sherlock hesitates, then shrugs. “Why not? It’s just going to be dinner or something, isn’t it? She clearly wants to. And you wouldn’t be averse, I presume.”

“Not exactly, but – what about – ?” They can’t go into it here, not at length, but John gestures back and forth between the two of them with a finger. “I thought that’s why we have our thing.”

Sherlock’s shrug is more on his face than in his shoulders this time. “I just thought you wanted to. And she was very helpful. Could be a good way to say thank you.” 

John can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Somehow he’d thought Sherlock would be more possessive, especially since he’s been rather more affectionate of late, even a bit clingy, one could almost say. He doesn’t have all that great a track record for being willing to share John in general, and lately John’s found himself liking that, liking being wanted so much. It used to annoy him, but now he seems to love being the sole centre of Sherlock’s attention for vast, unbroken periods of time. It almost feels insulting that he’s encouraging John to do this, ask this nice woman on a date. It’s not about the woman. It’s about Sherlock. Does he really not care? John feels both disturbed and – almost – hurt, even. He wants Sherlock to mind. But here he is, encouraging it! “All right, then,” he says, his tone a bit cool. “If you’re sure.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer this, simply striding away, his coat billowing behind him. 

Bastard, John thinks, resenting this whole thing. But he musters a smile for Allison’s sake, putting his hands in his coat pockets. “So,” he says with forced friendliness “Heading home?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, twisting at the end of her long, wavy blond hair. “I was thinking I might head out to look for a bite to eat – it’s been a long week and I haven’t got much in at the moment.”

Perfectly delivered cue, John thinks. “Same, actually,” he says, though it’s not true at all. Mrs Hudson just went to the shops yesterday (she doesn’t trust that two grown men are perfectly capable of buying their own groceries just yet, apparently). Thinking of her makes him wonder if he’s taking her advice or ignoring it by what he’s about to do. “What do you say we go and explore together? My flatmate’s just heading home, probably tired after the day. We wanted to thank you, though,” he says on the spur of the moment, which makes this feel better to the niggling doubt in his belly. “He’s not much of a one for sitting and talking, though, so – shall we?” 

He holds out an arm and she slips hers into it with a charming laugh. “He doesn’t seem it,” she agrees. “Lucky me, then, getting the sociable one! Besides, it’s easier with just two people, isn’t it?” 

John thinks of Sherlock heading back to the flat without him and ordering in Chinese and eating it all alone and feels a stab of unhappiness. “Yeah,” he says, feeling hollow. “I guess it is.” 

They find a restaurant nearby, one with a slightly pricier menu than John might have liked, especially for a date he’s not at all invested in, if this even _is_ a date, but it was close. Allison is very nice and actually quite interesting, as it happens. She also had a brother in the Northumberland Fusiliers, someone whose name John actually knew, and that gives them somewhere to start. He relaxes a little bit and reminds himself that this hardly signifies him being about to move out. It’s only dinner. They talk as they eat, and John does think briefly that, in the days before the arrangement, before Mary, he certainly would have invited Allison back to his place if she was up for that. Now he finds he doesn’t feel the slightest desire to do so. The thing is, all of a sudden it’s becoming completely clear: he’s not ‘making do’ with Sherlock. It’s that Sherlock is all he wants. Except that he wants to give in to the nagging little voice inside his head (or heart, maybe) that’s tugging at his sleeve and leading him in a particular direction – the direction that would let him stay all night in Sherlock’s bed every night, be there with him when they wake up. Cross the uncrossable lines and decide jointly that they don’t go in for lines any more. And kiss him. Yes: now that John is even thinking about this, he is flooded with a desire to kiss Sherlock and tell him that he’s sorry it took him so long to get there but that he’s there now, and that Sherlock doesn’t have to go arranging him dates to keep him happy, or whatever it was that he was thinking. All he needs to do is somehow get out of this ridiculous date and go home to Sherlock and tell him, make it all happen. 

Allison clearly has other ideas. She would come like a shot if he invited her back to the flat. Of that he’s very certain. Everything in her body language is intensely flirtatious, and when he agrees to share a dessert, she puts her fingers lightly on his wrist and lets them linger there. John looks at them and wonders how to extract his wrist without seeming rude, opening his mouth. 

Just then, there’s a slight commotion in the centre of the restaurant, not close to where they’re seated along the wall, but everyone looks. As John turns his head to do so, he feels something touching his legs and knees under the table. (What the – ?) He looks down and sees Sherlock’s face in the dark, a finger over his lips to shush him. What the hell is he doing down there? John wonders, but it makes itself unfortunately all too clear a moment later. Allison says something but John misses it because Sherlock’s mouth is on his crotch, exhaling warmly on his bits in his jeans. He feels himself stir immediately, as his cock is quite familiar with what that mouth is capable of. He scoots his chair in closer, glancing around and asks Allison to repeat what she said. 

“Oh, I was just saying, isn’t it terrible about what’s become of Syria in the past several years? Especially Damascus, it’s such an old city.” Allison shakes her head and takes a sip of her water. 

“H-how old is it?” John asks with difficulty as Sherlock unzips his jeans with his teeth and buries his face in John’s underwear, inhaling obviously and almost audibly. It occurs to him that Sherlock is doing precisely what John had said, the day he embarrassed Sherlock and made him come in his pants. Is this revenge for that? That was _weeks_ ago. No – he doesn’t think it’s revenge, but Sherlock knows that he’d recognise his own explanation of orally-induced seduction, perhaps. Allison says something else and John exhales shakily and tries not to gasp as Sherlock’s lips close over the head of his cock. He can’t believe this is happening, that he is sitting in a rather nice restaurant, surrounded by people, with his cock out and in someone’s mouth. The tablecloth is long and white, draping down to the floor on the sides, side over his lap, the way it’s supposed to be. Good thing, or Sherlock would be totally visible. He hears himself say something bland and appropriate to whatever Allison just said. The server brings their dessert, panna cotta with raspberries. John takes a spoonful and manages to eat it without incident. He’s breathing through his nose, trying to suppress his reactions and also to spread his legs a little wider to give Sherlock better access. This is absolutely without doubt one of the very filthiest things he’s ever done in his life, getting a blow job in open public in a place completely not appropriate for blow jobs. 

“… it’s one of the most interesting streets in the city,” Allison is saying, still talking about Damascus. “And you should see the tile work around some of the doorways, it’s lovely.” 

John tunes out again without meaning to. His nails have gone white on his spoon, his entire focus on his cock in Sherlock’s mouth. Shivery trails of pleasure are running up and down his thighs under Sherlock’s hands, spiking where his flesh meets Sherlock’s tongue and spreading up into his abdomen. His spoon is shaking. 

“Go on, take the last raspberry,” Allison urges, not noticing that he’s hardly eaten a bite of their dessert. 

“N – ” John can’t speak. He swallows and tries again. “No. Thanks.” She looks slightly puzzled so he adds, “I’m good. Just – ah – full.” 

“Are you okay?” she asks, looking concerned. 

John clears his throat, feeling heat rising into his cheeks. He’s at the stage where very much wants to be thrusting into Sherlock’s hungrily working mouth, but he’s powerless, trapped in his seat. Sherlock is being absolutely relentless, not that John particularly wants him to relent at this point. It’s simultaneously humiliating and just so good that he can’t make himself care anywhere near enough. He reaches below the table to grip at whatever part of Sherlock’s hair he can reach (and silently promising himself that he will never, ever allow Sherlock to cut said hair), and Sherlock gets the hint, going harder and faster. John’s body is nearly vibrating with pleasure, quivering from his thighs through his torso, biting his lips and barely, barely able to keep from making a most unbecoming whining sound through his nose. Allison is looking at him oddly but he can’t help himself. He picks up his glass of water to take a sip and Sherlock chooses that particular moment to lift his soft palate and take John’s cock fully into his throat. John’s orgasm rushes over him right then, his body jerking and spasming and he chokes on the water, only just getting his serviette in front of his mouth in time. He coughs and coughs, seeing stars and he can’t stop either coughing or coming. His eyes are watering and some distant part of his mind is fully aware that humiliation has just been stunningly redefined, but it doesn’t matter. He finally manages to draw breath, his face hot and probably very red, the last wave of tremors rolling over him. 

Allison has been talking this entire time, it seems, though he couldn’t even hear it. “… are you okay?” she’s repeating, half on her feet, her face terribly concerned. “Oh my God, should I – should I call someone?” 

John becomes aware that other people in the restaurant are looking at him, the man with the violent coughing fit. Under the table, Sherlock releases his cock at last and quickly gets it back into his jeans, still partly hard. “I’m fine,” he says hoarsely, and carefully takes a proper sip of water. He wipes his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says, coughing again. “I must have swallowed something the wrong way. Would you excuse me for just a moment? Think I’ll just, er, pop into the gents’.”

“Of course,” she says, her kind eyes still worried. 

John gets up and makes sure to not to push his chair in too far. He goes into the men’s toilets and leans over the sink, still coughing a bit. His eyes are slightly bloodshot, but at least it was only a bit of water. And a spectacular orgasm. He feels a bit badly for having just left Sherlock there under the table, but as he hasn’t the slightest idea how Sherlock got himself under the table without being seen in the first place, he has no clue how he’s supposed to get out. 

_Sherlock_. John looks at himself in the mirror very seriously, silently asking himself for confirmation of what he was thinking about before Sherlock appeared under the table. Does he want all that, with Sherlock? His reflection stares back at him and can’t seem to offer a single reason why the hell not. Yes, then. He does want that. The private admission feels like a watershed of sorts. He knows now, knows for certain. 

The door opens and Sherlock comes in. For a moment they just look at each other. There is no one else in the bathroom with them. Taken by surprise at Sherlock’s appearance, John isn’t sure what to say. Finally Sherlock breaks the silence. “Are you angry?” he asks quietly. 

“Angry?” John is surprised. “No. I mean – ” He changes his mind mid-sentence. “No. That was totally, spectacularly inappropriate – but no.”

Sherlock almost smiles, but not quite. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes something out. “Here,” he says, holding it out to John. 

John frowns. “Is that my – ?” It is: it’s his wallet. “Why do you have that?” 

“I retrieved it for you,” Sherlock says, then clarifies at John’s confused look. “From your date. I expect she’ll be gone by the time you go back to the table. It’s all right: the police are waiting outside. I missed something in the case today and it was bothering me. It was too easy. I went home to think about it and when I realised, I came straight here.”

John is still confused. “Wait – so, she was involved?” 

“Quite,” Sherlock says dryly. “In fact, she was the killer. Her boss was only her accomplice. They were in on it together. Quite the little team.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” John says, exasperated. “Not again!”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk forming around his mouth. “What, that you fell for another pathological liar and killer?” 

“Hold it right there,” John objects. “I didn’t ‘fall’ for anyone. Okay, so I thought she was pretty, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to ask her out, not before you pushed me into it.”

That gets the other eyebrow, too. “Weren’t you?” Sherlock asks lightly, but he isn’t looking at John, his hands in his coat pockets. “I thought you seemed interested.” 

“I didn’t actively hate her on sight,” John says. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

“It does rather prove that you do have a type, though,” Sherlock points out. “Serial killers, and – well. Me.” He pauses. “Or so I’d like to think,” he adds, much less certainly. 

John feels his lips purse a bit. “About that,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “Er – why, exactly, did you want me to do this? Have dinner with some random woman?” 

Sherlock sighs and looks away again. “The thought had occurred that… well. I like our arrangement. I suspect I probably like it rather too much. And it was thoughtful of you to suggest it. I appreciate your consideration more than I can tell you, and I agree that it seems like a fairly idyllic solution. I mean, this way I get to keep my best friend and flatmate, you have your physical needs seen to, I get to reap those particular benefits as well, and all is well. But it occurred to me that perhaps I shouldn’t hold you back. If you meet someone you want to be with, then... because we’re not like that, are we. It’s just friendship, with sex.” He stops, looking as if there’s more he wants to say but isn’t quite sure how to say it. 

This seems as good a time as any to say what he was just thinking about before Sherlock came in. “Sherlock,” John says carefully, “you know that I wasn’t looking for anyone, right? I wasn’t. Not even someone who isn’t a psychopathic murderer. You know that I already have the only person I want, don’t you?” 

Sherlock glances at him, the look betraying more vulnerability than he probably knows, John thinks. “I agree that as a temporary stand-in it works rather well,” he counters, not arguing, precisely, but coming close to it. “I’m just thinking of the long term. Because one day you might want to be with someone for more than just sex and companionship.”

“You’re right about that,” John tells him. “I do want more than that. I do want someone I can kiss and hold and spend the night with. What we have right now covers _almost_ all of that. It’s so close. But I do crave the rest of it.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump and he looks at the floor, swallowing. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “That’s precisely why I – ”

“And I want it _with you_ ,” John interrupts him forcefully, because Sherlock has _got_ to understand this. 

Sherlock’s head snaps up just as quickly, a wild light of hope flashing across his face. “What?” 

John smiles and to his surprise, a surge of stupid emotion prickles at the back of his eyes but he manages to stave them off. “That’s what this evening made me realise,” he says, his voice coming out a bit rough. “I even wondered if you were testing me or something.”

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock says quickly. “Though it would have been interesting to see how long it would have taken for you – ”

“ _Don’t_ finish that thought,” John warns, and Sherlock’s mouth snaps abruptly shut. “What I’m trying to say is that I realised that I don’t want anyone else. Even long before I knew she’d stolen my wallet, I was thinking about you the entire time and wished I was back at the flat eating Chinese takeaway with you and then going to either your room or mine and having sex. That’s about the perfect life for me, you know. But – I want it to be more than that, with us. If you’re amenable, of course. Because you’re all I want.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “I wasn’t eating Chinese at home,” he says. “I was solving the case.”

“Good,” John says, smiling at him. “I’m glad you didn’t go home without me. Because I very much want us to go home as – as we are now. Or as we’re going to be.”

Sherlock’s lips press into each other. “You’re sure you want – all that – with me?” 

John’s throat goes tight at the uncertainty on Sherlock’s face. “Very sure,” he says. He closes the distance between them, puts his hands on Sherlock’s jaw and pulls his face down. The instant their mouths meet, he experiences an intense feeling of relief, so strong it almost makes him feel dizzy. Not just relief, of course – it feels intensely good, dizzyingly sweet, and as though he could fall into it and never willingly take himself out of it again. Sherlock’s mouth opens to his and it’s as though their mouths fall instantly into the pattern of intimacy that the rest of their bodies have already been engaged in over the past month or so. It’s easy and natural and completely heady and wonderful, even there in the men’s room at some restaurant John never wants to see again. Sherlock’s arms are around his back, even tighter than they were last night when he glued himself to John front-to-front after the intensity of the sex they’d just had, and John is holding him just as tightly. It’s as though the last piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. They weren’t like that – they never had been, but they always should have been. This is so right that it makes John want to pound his head against a wall and howl for frustration that neither of them saw it sooner, that they didn’t manage to collectively get there faster. After several long, intense, passionate minutes, John breaks free long enough to say, “I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot.”

“No, I am,” Sherlock corrects him, and kisses him again before John can argue. 

John can’t even resist long enough to bother trying to refute this. They kiss and kiss and for once it’s nothing but this – no sex, no talking, just _this_. John’s heart feels as though it’s swollen to twice its size and it’s beating wildly in his rib cage, Sherlock’s echoing it through his skin. “There won’t be anyone else,” he promises when they can speak again, several minutes later, his thumbs stroking over Sherlock’s face. “Not ever. I promise.” 

“I promise, too,” Sherlock says, his eyes terribly serious. “I was watching you with her and I could see that she wanted to go home with you. Sleep with you. You, I wasn’t sure about, but she definitely wanted to. And I couldn’t let you – I mean, she already had your wallet and had killed a man not twelve hours earlier, but even without that – I suddenly realised that I couldn’t stand the thought of it, of you with someone else. I was trying to – do the right thing for once in my life, but if you had started flirting back, I couldn’t have stood to watch it. Originally I wasn’t going to let you know that I was there, but it was a sudden impulse. I thought that if I got you off, you wouldn’t want to go back to her flat. I was hoping.”

“I’m glad you did,” John tells him, meaning it completely. “I wouldn’t have, though. Just for the record.” 

Sherlock smiles, his eyes bright and happier than John has ever seen them. It reminds him of their first case, the foot race through London as they were chasing Jeff Hope’s taxi, and the look on Sherlock’s face when Angelo came by to drop off his suddenly-unnecessary cane. “I knew I’d been too clingy lately, showed my hand a bit too much,” he confesses. “I just couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop myself. I thought that if you knew I wanted that, you would change your mind about the arrangement.” 

“I kept wanting to stay,” John admits. “I kept telling myself it wasn’t that, that it couldn’t be that, and all the time it already _was_. I was just too stupid to see it.”

“Maybe I was stupid not to tell you, but I felt I couldn’t take the risk,” Sherlock says. 

“But – when I first suggested the arrangement, did you already feel this way? Want this?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods. “Though the arrangement showed me that it was even worse than I had realised. So at first I told myself that it was fine and that I should just try to enjoy what it was and be satisfied with that.”

“But that never works, of course,” John says. He feels a pang for Sherlock, pining for him and thinking he could never reveal it. He puts both hands on Sherlock’s face again, feeling like his heart must be showing in both eyes like a cartoon character. “Oh, Sherlock,” he says, his voice coming out soft. 

“I love you, you know,” Sherlock tells him, very soberly. 

John swallows and hears himself saying something like Sherlock’s name and this time the kiss is so passionate that by the time it ends, he’s surprised to find he’s not actually inside Sherlock’s clothes. He can feel Sherlock hard against himself – probably still hard from earlier, and wants to do anything, absolutely anything that Sherlock wants. He’ll offer to let Sherlock be inside him, or put his tongue in Sherlock’s arse, wear any silly costume, let Sherlock tie him up, just _anything_ , as long as they’re together and there are no more of these games about it just being friendship or some stupid arrangement of convenience and nothing more. 

“So,” Sherlock says, a long time later, “are we going to stay in this bathroom all night or can we go home sometime? I rather need you to ravish me.”

“Consider it done,” John says. They get themselves out of the loo, Sherlock holding his hand. Allison is indeed gone. John finds the maitre d’ and asks to pay his bill only to find out that Sherlock already paid it. He turns to look at Sherlock, who looks very casual except the fact that his eyes are gleaming like stars. John wants to pull him down to the floor right there and then. Instead, he takes a deep breath and they go outside to get a taxi. Inside, he slides over to Sherlock, who immediately puts his arms around him. “So we’re agreed,” John says. “The arrangement is finished.”

Sherlock makes a decidedly satisfied sound. “Does that mean I get to call you something slightly more important than ‘my flatmate and best friend and colleague who I also have sex with’ now?” 

“We’ll figure out an exact title,” John promises, and Sherlock nearly purrs in contentment and bends to kiss him again. 

And neither of them notices the driver smiling indulgently to himself in the mirror. 

*


End file.
